Heat of the Moment
by SailorSilvanesti
Summary: AU. "These words should never be beheld by anyone other than the intended recipient," What if the only thing keeping Sherlock from telling John he is alive, is Mycroft? All for the sake of a government conspiracy to bury Sherlock's righteous transgressions. As if that would stop the worlds only consulting detective from reaching his Doctor. Est. Johnlock; Post-Reichenbach-fall.


**Disclaimer: I do not Own SHERLOCK or any of the associated Characters.**

This was written for a friend, the CAT LORD and good feels guy.

AU. Established Johnlock.

* * *

**~*Heat of the Moment*~**

**~)0(~**

* * *

Nothing breathed in the room but the scratchings of an antiquated method of transcribing inner dictation onto parchment; archaic to some, in particular the sneering Mycroft who had attempted to convince him to use something more modern for a diary... to no avail.

These words should never be beheld by anyone other than the intended recipient, it should leave no trace of it's existence in a computer or data device so that's it's ghost may be reconstructed and read by Mycroft's little decryptionists. His brother cared, true... but the intensity of his affection was almost too strong in some cases, especially now when 'the Government' itself had decided that a certain consulting detective was to be kept secret, silent and safe from the world. For now...

Though he would not be dissuaded, seldom seen tears pressed hotly at the back of flashing blue eyes that caught the flickering candlelight in the too-dark room. A grandfather clock chimed suddenly, causing the shaking hand to start and jerk away from the parchment lest it be ruined by a false movement of surprise...

Duly, when the eleventh chime had come and gone, the world retreating into gloomy silence once again, the hand returned the long tapered quill to the parchment's surface. For many hours longer did the hand tarry over it's work, each letter slowly drawn out, every curve and line etched with the emotions the writer would never dare show to those now about him lest they find his weakness.

If Mycroft only knew what was being written, it would be flung into a fiery grate and burned, the ashes scattered across the globe by his shady government associates... but it had to be written, it had to be said. The fleeting glance at the surveillance screens set up in his brother's office had told him all his quick-witted mind would ever need to know about the one he left behind...

Lines of pain etched the face, a cane to hand where there was no inherent need, the soldier's mannerisms had returned to protect the man inside again, as before. In the brief, furtive glance the hobbling man had taken at the camera, directly at the camera as if he knew Mycroft was watching... Sherlock had seen his eyes...

And knew that to leave someone in that kind of suffering for so long was inhumane, even by his standards...

He had to write this letter...

~)0(~

How it had come to pass into his hands, was as yet a mystery to the tired man who now caressed the rough surface of the carefully folded parchment in his hand. In a split second, as he turned to walk up the stairs into 221 Baker Street, something had caught his eye... a face, familiar...

Instinct demanded he turn to look, and in that moment someone slammed into his person from the side, face blurred by motion as they simultaneously helped him stand again, cane to hand, and disappeared into the faceless bustle of the street. It was then the envelope had wound it's way into his hand.

The cane had clattered to the pavement as the man turned and raced inside, all the way up the stairs without so much as a curse or limped step. He knew there was a reason for the secrecy, why the deliverer wished no one to know his face, but yet not whether the contents of the letter were of good or ill intentions.

Given those he and...

He had made a lot of enemies by being around his former... 'flatmate'... it had torn out his heart that day; seeing the beautiful man plummet from a great height to shatter on the cold, hard pavement like a porcelain doll. He wanted to hold him, weep over the body and shake the smug smirk back on the slack, pale face... but many hands of those who sought to 'help' had stood between them.

His cries of 'I'm his friend, let me through!' had been met with abject objections, none wanted him to see the brilliant, beautiful man in such a state... who would want that as the last image of their 'friend'?

He understood why, even then and moreso now; but some nagging part of his mind prodded that he should have said the truth... should have called out, 'Let me through, he's my-...' ah, but what were they, really?

Would it have changed things in any great detail? Would the crowd have parted, or grown thicker? Shown greater sympathy to his plight or turned on them both in disgust?

Trembling with the emotions of that past time, John let out a slow, heady exhalation to calm his nerves... and started as he realised at some point his eyes had grown closed in remembrance His body swayed, and a hand shot out to snag hold of the nearest object -the table. It had been a long time since he had had cause to run anywhere, but yet the exhaustion was more emotional than physical...

The man breathed deeply, straightened and managed to pace across the room and collapse in the armchair across from his own with a certain amount of dignity intact. The scent of the other was overwhelming here, even now after all these many long months of endless therapy and staring blankly at the smiley face on the wall that Mrs Hudson no longer had the heart to have erased.

Shaking fingers slid to the wax seal, curiously tracing the indented symbol with a vague familiarity stirring at the back of his mind; the tip of his tongue tingled with a desire to voice the symbol's name aloud, but felt too self-conscious to do so lest he was wrong. an old habit, but one he held on to for nostalgic purposes...

It was an _ankh_, the Egyptian hieroglyph for... ah, now that's where his recollections of his brief semester in Ancient History studies at high school ended; his teacher had transferred half the over-crowded class into the adjoining biology class to give her some peace of mind. As infuriating as it was that this tidbit of information eluded him due to this obscure fact, he had always thanked that teacher profusely in his mind, for the encouragement he received in biology had inspired him to become a doctor in the first place; which could never have taken place otherwise.

With a brief shake of the head, he dispelled such nonsensical thoughts as if waving away irritating smoke; although before... well, his other had trained him to notice the little things. Part of him wanted to immediately take up his laptop and research the symbol, but the more dominant part of his personality demanded an immediate cessation to the nervous tremors in his stomach, disquieting his thoughts, by opening the letter.

Carefully he scraped an old letter opener under the seal with all due care, jimmying open the envelop as if it held the secret to life itself...

The letter opener clattered to the floor noisily as nerveless finger slipped out the parchment within, covered in what disbelieving eyes could only identify as the carefully-thought out calligraphy style of one supposedly-deceased consulting detective...

~)0(~

"_You may not believe this when I say it to you, face to face, my dear John... but I am so very, truly sorry that you had to suffer alone. In truth, the only reason I decided to fall from grace in the eyes of the world, and unintentionally put you through this torment was to save your life. Better that the excision of my grace be the price for your precious life, and I would pay it a thousand times over gladly; and if it took a fall to protect you, then certainly that was not too high a cost for your safety..._

_I would die for you, and you alone, Doctor John Hamish Watson. That, through my actions, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade were saved as well are but paltry details. No, please, I can already feel you beginning to blame yourself, a rather melodramatic but perfectly understandable guilt-complex you developed during the war when sub-standard operating conditions lost several of your patients before your healing hands could bring them back... _

_You spoke in your sleep sometimes, did you know? Mostly little nothings, whispers and smiles of pleasant times, and sometimes my name; but occasionally the nightmares and memories would take you and all I could do was hold you as you thrashed and called out names in anguish. Sometimes I wished I could pull you into my mind-palace and cleanse those dark memories from you, but you would never agree even if it were possible for you are so stubborn. Even now I envisage you standing your ground and stating that they are the memories, both light and dark, that make you who you are... what you are... and to my unique viewpoint, I find you perfect the way you are._

_But your stubborn loyalty was always a problem, dear John. Ever the healer, the nurturer, you would never give up on someone who you had even the slightest chance of saving... the soldier carrying the weight of those lost as well as his own burdens._

_I saw it in your face that day, the day I fell for you; from Heaven to Earth in seconds, and all I saw was your face. How I wished I could have said not to worry... that it would be fine, to trust me... but I knew you would do so implicitly anyway. Your stubborn nature would never allow you to believe I had perished without physical, factual proof..._

_I daresay you could lie in the coffin beside my body for years on end and regularly check my pulse on the hour, every hour, waiting for me to stop playing dead; do not get me wrong, the loyalty is admirable, and this stubborn determination of yours is something I find intensely attractive... _

_...but if just the once, you could have accepted defeat and allowed someone to die on your watch without blaming yourself, why could it not have been this time? You grieved for me, I heard your words in the cemetery the unwavering faith that nothing could shake, the heartfelt plea that I could not answer at the time..._

_It took all four of Mycroft's secret servicemen to hold us apart when I heard that, and even then I fought for you, to get to you, but he is as stubborn as you and twice as secretive. The next I knew I was awakening to a couch in his office as his glare descended, remonstrating me once again for nearly destroying a national secret... you see John, Moriarty was an accidental slip in international security and his defamation of myself was intended to bring closure to the matter. When he forced my hand by threatening you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, it was evident the end game was in motion and Mycroft showed his hand at last... a royal flush of victory ensued, but it would only be effective if I pretended to remain deceased for the foreseeable future. _

_My brother is many things, and has his slice of many an important cake on all levels of government and international affairs, but if there is one thing he will never understand, it is what you mean to me. Many have called me a machine, you yourself have done so, and I assure you, it is most true on occasion... but if I am capable of loving anyone, it is you, and I knew you felt the same from the moment an unexpected bullet tore through a window and killed the man who attempted to make me the object of my own suicide. Only one person could have made that shot, though I never saw you, I sensed you that day..._

_...I will never forget that night as long as I live. How ironic it takes a brush with death to liven ones senses enough to look around and notice others exist, and just how much they mean to you. _

_Oh my John, just the other morning as I passed by a supposedly hidden surveillance area of Mycroft's offices while trying to find a way out of this hidden establishment... I saw you. The cry that fell from my lips at the sight of your pain drew my previously inattentive bodyguards from all areas of the underground complex; it seems they had been searching for me, not through concern for my safety mind you, but more with a distinctive 'capture and detain' mentality. Mycroft's Orders._

_For some reason they will not let me leave this place... my sudden reanimation would cause panic in the streets apparently. They will only hold me as long as I wish to be held, though my dear John, and I grow weary of this endless imprisonment; I have humoured Mycroft long enough, I think and soon I shall find my way through the various security flaws and straight to you."_

~)0(~

With a shaky sigh, John took a deep breath and reached out to carefully caress the parchment the words were written on, unconsciously intoning the other's name. A short bark of a laugh forced itself out at the idea of Mycroft trying to cage his uncooperative brother up; did the man not understand how utterly brilliant Sherlock truly was?

A secondary page rustled from behind the first, and with great care, John extricated it from the other; treating both as if they were the most precious things in the entire world. Another series of beautiful letters filled the page to the halfway mark where it ended abruptly... he tried not to think on why, or let his eyes wander to the empty space, and began to read again.

~)0(~

_"Do you remember, John, the day I gave you that ring you wear about your neck? It is my promise to you that I am coming, in as much as the feel of your dogtags pressing against the flesh of my chest is reassurance that you are still waiting in 221b Baker Street for my return. The vehemency in your tone that day, when you gave them to me... with the promise of undying affection in your eyes,_ that_ is what makes me believe you have not yet given up the idea that somewhere in the world I may yet remain alive. Rest assured, my survival was in question for a time, and certainly I will explain it all to you when next we meet, but my physical state is one of perfect health at this very moment as I write this._

_Sometimes I dream of that day, standing on the roof looking down with such crystal clarity on those below I can make out the faces of all those gazing up to see what would happen next. Moriarty contrived to remain out of the spotlight as always, I would not be surprised if his apparent suicide was an elaborate hoax and he is recovering in a private hospital somewhere hidden away across the globe. One thing always starts me from the dream as I fall, and it is not the pavement rushing to meet me... no, my eyes never look down at all in the dream; they are always gazing into your determined gaze. Such an expression it is too, as if your sheer willpower could keep me from striking the ground..._

_Occasionally, if it is a good dream, you do; otherwise the determined gaze melts into one of agonized grief and I awaken immediately, having struck the ground. It is those eyes John, those eyes that I remember from that day, most else is a blur apart from the conversation with Moriarty on the rooftop, and the heart-wrenching fear I felt at the idea he might kill you for my egotistical ways._

_Once before I saw the look in your eyes, in the heat of the moment you were consigned to die for me, grasping hold of Moriarty in a vicious embrace as you screamed for me to run. I feel he had not truly discerned our relationship in definitive terms until that very moment, and when our cards were revealed, Moriarty knew he had already lost. He could never have me, not the way you do... my heart was yours and yours alone, John. It was not until that day on the roof that I knew for certain why he set us free that day, it was a plot to allow us a sense of security and also, a chance for him to understand and define us. _

_He knew you could be used against me, but not to what extent; certainly after you shot his pawn, the taxi driver, to defend me after only knowing me a handful of hours... his intellect perceived a bond. Though it was not until that night in the pool that he knew my one weakness was you, and I am yours; but Moriarty could never understand that weaknesses are also strengths, and I draw my strength from you."_

~)0(~

John found himself frowning, certainly it did seem like Sherlock had written this, but it was uncharacteristically... emotional for the Detective. Absence did happen to make the heart grow fonder, but it never made consulting detectives into sappy piles of mush, this was deliberate, Sherlock was telling him something. His hand unconsciously found it's way to his throat, following the sterling silver chain down to clasp the golden ring hanging from it.

It seemed odd that the ring of all things had been mentioned, for no one but themselves knew about it; well, one paramedic who had bandaged up the fractured ribs he had received from being hit by the bicyclist that day was aware of it, but she had made no comment as he sat there silently staring at the doors where Sherlock had disappeared. He had refused all offers to go to the hospital for proper treatment, it was only a few damaged ribs after all... he'd had worse.

Being shot was always worse.

In anycase, the warm metal was rotated first one way, then the other; dim evening light catching the metal at different angles and gleaming dully back. On the top sat a square setting, like that of the ancient kings of old, it was a raised gem in the set of a bevelled square; the stone was translucent gem of light blue. He had always wondered why this particular ring, but Sherlock had placed great emphasis on keeping it with him at all times, as if it was a national secret he must guard; though try as he might he had never found anything remotely unusual about the jewellery. Though... the thought struck him, sometimes he could swear, as he examined it in artificial light, that there was some kind of image reflected from the base...

Naturally it disappeared under intense scrutiny, but... perhaps...

To make any certainties he would have had to pry the gem from it's base, thus partially destroying the ring and he could never do that to something Sherlock had given to him... could he?

With nimble fingers, he snatched up the letter opener once more and made an attempt at prying the gem loose; it did not come easily, for it was well set, but when he found the right angle it came free with a scraping sound. His short sound of relief died in his throat as he saw what had eluded his eyes for the entirety of the time he had worn the ring... a symbol, raised in the base of something resembling a small square metal bowl where the gem had been based. More specifically, an ankh surrounded by the words, '_This is how you shall know me_'.

The army doctor rolled his eyes at the theatricality of it, but his pulse quickened with excitement as he realised the authenticity of the letter was genuine; only Sherlock would have known the symbol existed under the gem. Though he wondered exactly what the man had used for a seal to give the exact shape... did he too have a ring or perhaps he had had a seal made up for this specific purpose... what if Mycroft had found it and this was another game?

He went stone cold still.

A breeze rustled through an open window and he shivered, eyes drawn back to the fluttering parchment as it flapped in the ensuing atmospherical stimulation. Perhaps this was a game, but he was inclined to believe it wasn't...

Once more he shuddered as the air grew increasingly chillier now that night had set in with the intention of draining all warmth from the world with a vengeance. He could have sworn he'd shut it on the way out, but little did it matter anymore... he seemed to be losing his mind these days; Mrs Hudson was forever finding his supposedly 'missing' belongings in the most unusual places. Just last week he'd tried to microwave his underwear twice and had to remove a favourite book, partially charred, from the oven...

Though no one would say it aloud, many people were beginning to think he had lost his common sense when Sherlock died, and yet more still where always whispering behind his back about things he could only half-hear. Some liked to pass the nasty thought that he should stop moping over his lost 'roommate', for that was what they were to the outside world, and get on with life; another popular tabloid headline was that John was actually unhinged in some manner or other, and this had driven Sherlock to commit suicide. He had of course questioned how they'd explained away the fact that every other legitimate newspaper in the area had stated Sherlock's 'death' was related to the idea that his genius had been discredited... and apparently that was a 'government conspiracy'.

Well, he never put much stock in supermarket tabloids, not since he realised the 'alien baby' on page 3 was little Johnny Benson from down the street painted green...

~)0(~

His eyes inexplicably drew back to where his finger was keeping place once again,

_"This was a set-up John, I was meant to die in order to safeguard the reputation of those in all levels of government and aristocracy I had jeopardised by setting Irene Adler free on the world. Ah yes, as it turns out she did not end up in a witness protection program in another country, nor was she murdered... I personally saw to it that she was set free of her previous identity and settled elsewhere in a different occupation. I do hope you are not mad about that... I should have told you so, but life was so busy afterwards that it just never came up in practical conversation, or perhaps it did during one of the infamous episodes where I fail to realise you have left the room. Never mind._

_Time grows short, John, and Mycroft is already suspicious that I refuse to write this supposed 'therapeutic diary of my thoughts' on the 'incident' as the insufferable psychotherapist they have found for me has labelled it, he is, of course, an incompetent idiot. If any of his patients have yet to kill themselves, I do not see why they are waiting; the man is in no uncertain terms a fool, with about as great a grasp on psychology as a child has on a bar of soap._

_Now is no time to dwell on my troubles however, it seems..."_

Here the ink was blurred slightly, as if written at a greater speed than previously, the writing less detailed and slanted, like calligraphic cursive.

"_Mycroft is coming, with a group of six of his men if the count of the echoing footsteps is correctly estimated, it seems I must go for now. Be vigilant, lock the doors and watch the windows, you are being watched just as much as I am currently. This shall soon be rectified._

_I only hope Irene can find a way to get this to you in time... before... John, I must go, Mycroft and his bunch of goons are attempting to break down the lock on my door; little do those imbeciles know I planned for this and levered the wardrobe in front of the door after locking it shut. A tactic I often employed as a child and Mycroft wanted retribution for eating one of his desserts; not that I am particularly fond of desserts, merely that it was his and I knew it would anger him. I was inherently correct in my assumptions of course but..._

_Ah, they are almost in, the wardrobe is lighter than anticipated against the bulk of several shaved primates in suits. Farewell for now John, I hope Irene did not bruise you too badly in her haste, or do anything else unspeakable to you in order to make you believe this is truly penned by my own hand. I would hate to walk in on a 'session' I was not invited to after all..._

_Remember, John, no matter what happens... I love you._

_~Sherlock Holmes_

_Oh, and John? ...turn around."_

~)0(~

John dropped the letter, shot upright and nearly fell over the armchair at the sudden movement; eyes raking the shadows to his right and finding no one. Disappointed, he supposed it might be that he had read the letter at the wrong time, or in the wrong way, he began to forage about in the hopes that maybe Sherlock had meant to look for something in the apartment that he'd left in case of emergen...cy...

Oh...

Practically glowing in the darkness immediately behind the armchair was the porcelain beauty of the one who held his heart; slightly thinner than before, but still beautiful as he stayed dead still several feet away from him. John felt only an instant of elation before the world began to spin violently with the turbulent sensations roiling in his stomach; and he felt the expected impact with the ground halted by a pair of strong arms accompanied by the concerned cry of his name as the world faded out.

~)0(~

When next those beautifully expressive eyes opened, gazing right up at him, Sherlock felt at a loss for words for what to say next and balked at the idea of ruining the moment; his sudden appearance had been quite a shock to the poor Doctor. In the space of an hour his entire world had been overturned with the knowledge that both people he had grieved for were now alive, well and roaming the Earth. It was enough to make the hardiest of people question their world view...

His lips parted to say something, but no sound came out.

Instead, John reached up a hand that traced the outline of his face, almost like a child would, as if to reassure himself that what he was seeing was not an elaborate dream. The warm hand was met with cool, pale flesh, and you could see it register in his eyes that this was actually happening...

"_Sh-...Sherlock? But you-... I'm sorry I destroyed your ring..._" the old soldier breathed, laughing faintly at the end, content to lie there supported by a comfortable lap and strong arms that would never let him go again; not if Sherlock had any say in it, at least.

He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner, "_That's quite alright John, it was made to be broken... to give you hope._" he responded quietly, a soothing tone taking over his entire demeanour.

_"You're really here, aren't you, Sherlock?"_ John said, pushing himself up to peer into the other's eyes as if to read his mind and assess the truth of the situation. He raised his own hand to brush against the flushed cheek of the recently-conscious army Doctor, and smiled, "I'm really here John; I'm alive, I'm real, and I'm home once again..."

"...but most importantly," he breathed, "I'm here with you..."

And the pair melded together once more, ignorant or deliberately oblivious to the small flashing surveillance camera innocuously sitting in a corner of their bookcase, recording their every move.

* * *

**The End.**

* * *

~This was written for the WONDERFUL_ thehatredlord,_ for his kindness to me when I was stressed.

Please be aware I just wrote this in a blur of words, I didn't actually have a plan worked out, this just happened, so if it is terrible, I am sorry...

You could say I wrote it in the... Heat of the Moment...

**~*SailorSilvanesti/Phoenix Fire*~**


End file.
